


Finger Guns and UV Rays

by Queenie_Mab



Series: PJO ficlets and oneshots [32]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Brothers, Demigods, Drinking to Cope, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Gods, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4328511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenie_Mab/pseuds/Queenie_Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life never goes the way Apollo wants it to. Sometimes, that's a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finger Guns and UV Rays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kat_the_pickle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_the_pickle/gifts).



> For [Kat-the-Pickle](http://kat-the-pickle.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr who asked for prompt #11 "Things you said while you were drunk" and Suncest for this [mini fic challenge](http://mab-speaks.tumblr.com/post/123913597104). 
> 
> I'm taking four more prompt requests and I don't do this often, so if you want me to write you a fic, go to tumblr and send me one!

"Slow down, Apollo! Are you trying burn yourself out?"

Dionysus's voice sounds a long way off. Weak, trembling, like the rustle of grape leaves in the wind. 

That image only drives me to drain my chalice to the dregs, the potent blend of divine wine bitter on my tongue, burning as I force it down my throat. The damned wind, Zephyros, is the reason I'm drowning my sorrows in my baby brother's den. Tears build up behind my eyelids, too many to hold back; they spill over my cheeks and I can't even bring myself to care enough to wipe them away.

"You knew they're flighty, wind gods," Dionysus says. He sounds more cheerful than he has in ages and it pisses me off. "When you got with him, you know. I mean, you're the god of prophecy, right? You speak only the truth? You can't honestly say you didn't foresee how it would end."

I force myself to lift my heavy eyelids and glare at Dionysus, my vision red. He's wearing his youthful countenance, all creamy skin, silken black curls, his curves tantalizingly feminine. I haven't seen him so _himself_ in years, especially stone-cold sober. 

"As much as it thrills me to see you coming out from under the dark cloud of depression, the fact it's at my expense is not cool, bro. I delivered you at birth, don't even think I won't hesitate to shove you back inside father's thigh and sew it back up."

He snorts, his cheeks going round and red, then full out dissolves into giggles. I can't be in the same room with him anymore. The wine helps, but there's not a chance in Poseidon's game room I'm going to put up with more abuse. 

I stand, unsteady on my feet and stumble for the door. 

Dionysus stops giggling long enough to wheeze at me: "That's the closet, Apollo. It's perfectly fine with me if you–" 

I stop his retort, sending a UV ray at his backside with a flick of my finger gun. I change direction as he hisses and pokes at his new blemish, and walk determinedly out the correct door. 

In the hallway, I'm lost. I don't visit the Big House much. As much as I do love my younger brother, too often being around him forces me into self reflection on all the parts of myself I'd rather not acknowledge. I follow the hallway in the dark with my hands stretched out at my sides, fingertips grazing the wallpaper until I reach an open door, the sweetest music coming from within. 

I blink a couple of times as I enter, it's just as dark as the rest of the house and my powers are already at their low point at nighttime in the winter, Dionysus's special blend notwithstanding. 

In the distance, a boy sits on a tall stool facing the window. My boy. He glows golden as he strums his guitar, singing softly. His playing isn't masterful, but his whole heart goes into it and his song, and it's that sort of honest, raw and pure love that transcends perfect pitch. I'm drawn to him, telling myself his music summoned me, though the lie sits heavy in my heart.

He stops playing and turns to look at me, his eyes wide and blue as the sky. 

"Apollo?" he says. 

I savor the sound of my name in his voice, closing my eyes, sighing. 

"Dad?" he says this time, and I scrunch up my face at the title. I don't want to be called that right now.

Still, even in my drunken haze, I want to do better for my kids than my father did for me, or my vast number of siblings. I open my eyes again, trying to remember how to walk properly, and that seems to be a mistake. Thinking about walking complicates it. I trip, hitting the cold tiles at Will's feet hard on my ass, and then banging my head against a bed frame.

"How did this get in here?" I ask, rubbing the back of my head and squinting up at Will. 

He blows out an exasperated breath, then slips out from under his guitar strap and sets the instrument on the foot of the bed. He stands, and then leans over, offering me a hand up. I stare at his hand before taking it, and then I pull him down with me instead, chuckling at the way he swears in surprise, all long tangled limbs, heavy and warm, as I pull him up against my chest and ignore his protests.

Finally he stills, his breath warm against my neck, the smell of his shampoo sweet in my nose. "You're drunk," he says dryly. 

The sound of his disbelief, his _had-about-enough-of-your-shit_ attitude, amuses me to no end. I'm so content in the moment of having him here with me, I don't even bother checking my thoughts, about choosing what to share and what to keep secret. "Will," I breathe. I let up enough for him to pull back and look at me face to face. His lips are so plump and young. Moist. Perfect. "I've dreamed about this. About you. Your pretty lips stretched around my dick."

His face is wrong. I play over what I'd just said a few times in my head, making sure that it is what I meant. It is. I only speak the truth or I choose not to speak, so why is his face blanching, why do I read horror in his eyes?

"Uh," he starts, then swipes his lower lip with his tongue. My eyes track it, and he makes his face a mask. I recognize this. This professional mask healers must wear when they have to interact with difficult patients. A calm, collected mask, hiding their true selves. That would make me the difficult patient. More tears well up in my eyes. I hate it. Rejection. 

Will's eyes soften, but I still feel the walls he's thrown up between us. "Dad. I'm with Nico." His eyes widen, and he glances up at the bed, then back at me. "And he's not well. I could really use my dad right now. Think you can get up, crawl into the other bed and sleep this drink off?"

The simple truth, the earnest plea reaches me through the toxic drunken haze. I release Will, watching as he climbs to his feet, and then offers his hand to help me up again. I take it, and this time pull myself up. I'm going to have words with Dionysus tomorrow. And Zephyros. And probably Will too, I tell myself as I stagger to the empty infirmary bed and fling myself onto it. 

Face down on the pillow, I feel Will pull the blanket over my shoulders, then listen to him return to the stool, pick up his guitar again. I tuck my chin down, and peer at the bed next to me, at the boy inside it more shadow than substance. That little shit had better knock it off and not break my son's heart. I aim my finger gun at him and give him a few thousands volts of solar power before passing out.

~*~

In the morning my head throbs, my skull shaking with each beat of my heart. But I hear voices, happy ones. Loving words between boys in love. I figure I can deal with my pain. The hope-filled air around me dulls it well enough. 


End file.
